Nora was face to face at last with Flora Desimone.
"I wish to speak to you," said the Italian abruptly.
"Nothing you could possibly say would interest me," declared Nora,
haughtily and made as if to pass.
"Do not be too sure," insolently.
Their voices were low, but they reached the ears of the Barone, who wished
he was anywhere but here. He moved silently behind the palms toward the
exit.
"Let me be frank. I hate you and detest you with all my heart," continued
Flora. "I have always hated you, with your supercilious airs, you, whose
father...."
"Don't you dare to say an ill word of him!" cried Nora, her Irish blood
throwing hauteur to the winds. "He is kind and brave and loyal, and I am
proud of him. Say what you will about me; it will not bother me in the
least."
The Barone heard no more. By degrees he had reached the exit, and he was
mightily relieved to get outside. The Calabrian had chosen her time well,
for the conservatory was practically empty. The Barone's eyes searched the
shadows and at length discerned Abbott leaning over the parapet.
"Ah!" said Abbott, facing about. "So it is you. You deliberately scratched
off my name and substituted your own. It was the act of a contemptible
cad. And I tell you here and now. A cad!"
The Barone was Italian. He had sought Abbott with the best intentions; to
apologize abjectly, distasteful though it might be to his hot blood.
Instead, he struck Abbott across the mouth, and the latter promptly
knocked him down.